


leave my heart at the door

by lilcrickee



Category: You Could Make a Life Series - Taylor Fitzpatrick
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8889481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilcrickee/pseuds/lilcrickee
Summary: Getting involved with Lourdes is a bad idea. David doesn’t expect to stick around England long enough for him to think establishing relationships with people will lead to anything other than tearful goodbyes. And Lourdes’ social status isn’t lost on him either. David is certain that if he told his mother that he was courting with someone of a lower social standing than them she’d cut him off immediately.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenleavesnever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenleavesnever/gifts).



> I wish I could've done this fic the justice it deserves but life happens and now I have this. At any rate, this is a gift for the lovely Christina, whom I met through this fandom and am eternally gratefully to have gotten to know. Love you long time, boo xox
> 
> This fic is unbeta'd and as such, any and all inaccuracies are my own. If there's something completely, glaringly wrong, please do not hesitate to let me know! My knowledge of this time period is ... limited, at best.
> 
> Title from Adele's "All I Ask".

England is dreary.

David isn’t sure what he expects, has heard enough of the gossip to know that the entire country is cold, wet, and grey. Nothing like France, in all its vibrancy, with all the beautifully lit shop windows, and the sprawling countryside. There will be no fancy French pastries, no gourmet meals. If what has been said is true, then David supposes he can expect sausages and boiled potatoes for the duration of his stay. 

It’s hard to feel anything but bitterness as he stares out the window of the stage coach. He had never asked to come to England, and certainly not alone, but his mother had insisted it was for the best. “I’ll be along soon,” she had told him as he had boarded the ship. She hadn’t said anything about his father, but that was probably for the best. Angrily, David clenches his fist and tries not to grind his teeth. He’s always been told it’s unbecoming. 

Across from him sits Oleg Kurmazov. His name alone is enough to set David on edge, but his stoic demeanor, the gruffness of his voice when reciting stilted, awkward English, makes David nervous. His mother had thought that staying with another refugee would be beneficial, but it just makes David wonder how he will be received into society when he’s staying with someone who seems to barely have a grasp on the country’s language.

“You will not be here long, I think,” Kurmazov says as the coach rattles up to an innocuous looking brownstone in a fairly average looking neighbourhood. David can’t help but think about his family’s property in France, how it’s lavish and beautifully designed. The Kurmazov’s home looks like any other building on the street. 

It is, objectively, a kind thing to let a stranger into his home, but David can’t help but bristle at Kurmazov’s words. He steps out of the coach, allows himself a moment to breathe in the dense, foggy London air, and says, “I should hope not,” before marching towards the front door.

 

 

Despite David’s hopes, his stay at the Kurmazov’s stretches on. Days turn into weeks, which begin to edge close to a month, and after twenty-five days Kurmazov appears in the doorway of his bedroom and says, “Tomorrow we are going to a ball.”

David bites his bottom lip. He’s sitting at his desk, a small piece of homely furniture pushed up against a grimy window. He can see into the street if he squints hard enough. “Alright,” he says. “I shall make sure that the children are in bed - “

“No, I mean that _we_ are going to a ball,” Kurmazov says. “You are also invited.”

David’s pen falters over the note he’s writing. “I - “ he starts, then pauses to clear his throat. “I was not aware that people knew I was staying with you.”

He doesn’t turn around, so he doesn’t see whatever expression may be on Kurmazov’s face. It’s probably a scowl. David has hardly seen him do anything else.

“I may have mentioned to Mr. Volkov that we had a guest staying with us,” he replies. 

David feels his cheeks flush. “And why would you do that?” he asks, turning now to stare at Kurmazov. “Did you also tell him that I am French?”

“Mr. Volkov is a smart man,” Kurmazov says. “I would not be surprised if he figured it out on his own.”

Quietly, David fumes. He knows what it means to be French in this country, knows the feud between England and France. Though he’s certain that his accent will give him away, David doesn’t exactly want his presence spread around.

“You cannot stay in this room forever,” Kurmazov says, taking a step further into the room. He inspects the blank walls, the carefully made bed, the tidied stack of books in the corner. Nothing is out of place, nothing to say that the room is lived in at all. “You do not like it here but you are staying for awhile.”

“You don’t know that,” David says abruptly, standing fast enough that his chair wobbles on its legs. “When the Revolution is over, I can go home.”

Kurmazov meets his eye, and David has to look away, can’t stand the pitying expression that he sees there. He knows the Kurmazovs came to England years ago, knows that they too thought they would be going back to Russia not too long after they left. Now they have three daughters, all born in England, and no plans to return.

David isn’t like them though.

“Come to the ball with us,” Kurmazov says. “You can laugh at English fashion if you do not dance.”

David rolls his eyes, but when Kurmazov leaves he gingerly opens his wardrobe and assesses his formal wear.

 

 

Kiril Volkov is a friend of the Kurmazovs from Russia. He is not overly tall, nor overly handsome, but he has a wide grin that he offers to David when he arrives at his home with the Kurmazovs.

“Olezkha, always good to see you,” Volkov says brightly. Kurmazov frowns while his wife, laughs delightedly. 

“I have told you not to call me that,” Kurmazov says, but he shakes Volkov’s outstretched hand anyway. 

“And this must be your ward!” Volkov says, turning his attention to David. He is loud, even above the music filtering in from the ballroom, and David flinches back. Volkov’s smile drops.

“Kiril Volkov, this is David Chapman. He is staying with us while his family sorts out some affairs,” Kurmazov says easily. He puts a hand on David’s shoulder, and while David would normally shrug it off, he is weirdly comforted by its weight, the steady presence of Kurmazov beside him. 

“Friends of the Kurmazovs are friends of mine!” Volkov says. His English is heavily accented, even more than David’s is, and that reassures David slightly. There are many people in attendance and none of them would have come if they had been worried about an outsider like Volkov being the host. Perhaps he had misjudged the English …

David had never been one for balls, but he could already tell that this one was not a huge stately affair. People were dressed in their finest clothes, but they paled in comparison to the ballgowns David had seen in France. These were simpler clothes, and David feels slightly out of place in his finery: satin and silk and neatly pressed trousers.

“Do you need a dance card?” someone asks from behind him, and David stiffens, turns sharply to find himself facing a young woman with shiny blonde hair and a carefully pleasant smile on her face.

“Uh - “

“I thought, because you are new to London, you might want to dance with some people,” the woman says, pressing a card into his hand. “Make some friends.”

“I - uh. Thank you,” David stutters, the words tripping off his tongue like they haven’t since he was very young and first being taught English.

“I’m Emily,” the lady says. “Kiril’s wife.”

David feels himself blush a little. Emily looks - and sounds - very much English. The fact that she had taken a Russian as her husband is surprising. David wonders if her family approves. His own mother, he knows, would have a fit if he married an English woman.

Or man. 

“You have a very nice home,” David says politely, and Emily laughs a little, nods her head in gratitude.

“Thank you, Mr. - ?”

“Chapman,” David says, then blushes more when he realizes he never introduced himself. “David Chapman. I am staying with - “

“ - the Kurmazovs,” Emily finishes for him, smiling. She never stops smiling, David thinks. He wonders what it would be like to have a life where he doesn’t have to worry about every single little thing. “They are good people.”

“They are,” David says, for lack of anything better to say. The Kurmazovs are good people, but their daughters are loud and rambunctious, untrained in the ways of a lady yet, and David finds their noise to be unbearable sometimes. He doesn’t say any of this to Emily though. He feels she may not appreciate it.

They talk for another moment before Emily is pulled away by a grinning Volkov, whisked onto the dance floor for a jaunty waltz. It leaves David standing alone, the dance card still clutched tightly in his hand, when he notices someone approaching him.

“Hello,” the man says. It’s hard to judge his age from appearance alone, David notes. The man is tall, and broad, but his face has not lost all its traces of baby fat yet. His cheeks dimple when he smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. David purses his lips.

“Hello,” he says politely.

“Is your dance card full?” 

David is tempted to say yes, just to make the man go away. He’s looking at David like how everyone else has: with kindness and interest and curiosity, but also with hope. He looks not unlike the golden retriever that lives next door, that Kurmazov’s daughters always play with. 

“No,” David says finally. “There is space.” He doesn’t offer the man the card though, and his dimples disappear.

“Is there space now?” he asks, finally, persistent, and David bites his lip. The song is almost over, and while David has no interest in making nice with strangers tonight, he also does not want to spend the evening leaning against the wall. He likes dancing, is quite good at it, in fact, and one dance tonight could not hurt.

“Yes,” he says. “Though I should like to know your name before we step onto the floor.”

“Of course,” the man exclaims, his cheeks flushing red. David feels a sense of satisfaction. “I am Jacob Lourdes, though most people just call me Jake.”

David takes Lourdes in: the cheaper cut of cloth used to make his suit, the pale sheen to his tie, the pilling on his waistcoat. He is several classes below David, by the looks of it, undoubtedly a poor dancer, and David viciously thinks that he will be able to show Lourdes a thing or two about dancing.

“Chapman,” he replies, and takes Lourdes’ offered hand so as to be led out onto the floor.

 

 

Much to David’s surprise - and perhaps, to his dismay as well - Lourdes is an adequate dancer. Or, more than that. He’s a very good dancer. He doesn’t have the same grace that David has, none of the finesse, but he’s a good leader, sure-footed and reads David’s movements well enough that they can add their own twist to the steps. It’s the most fun David’s had at a dance in ages, though he’s loathe to admit it.

“You dance well,” Lourdes says when the song comes to an end. He’s still holding David’s hand, and David shakes it free, uses it to push back his hair from his face. 

“Everyone in Fr - where I’m from dances well,” David says. The stutter makes Lourdes raise an eyebrow at him, and David is certain that he must know, but Lourdes makes no comment. David would not say his accent is perfectly disguised, though it is more so than the Kurmazovs, but he still stumbles over his words sometimes, tongue tripping over sentence structure and verbs.

“Well, you must all have very good teachers,” Lourdes says. He’s smiling again, wide enough that his dimples show, and David has to turn his gaze away. “My mother taught me to dance, and while I love her dearly, she is not quite as adept a partner as you.”

David’s mother had sent him to a dance master at a very young age. Mary-Anne Mercado had been a highly touted dance master for all the young men and women in Paris, and typically only took in the best students. David had been awkward and stilted at first, but he’d worked hard, and so Mary-Anne had kept him. Idly, he wonders what she’s doing now.

A young lady approaches, startling David from his thoughts. She’s pretty, in the abstract way that most girls are, and she smiles at David politely before turning to Lourdes. “Jake,” she says, soft and sweet, and Lourdes returns her smile, though David notices there’s no dimples. “I’ve left you a space on my dance card.”

“Oh,” Lourdes says, like it’s a surprise. David’s sure that despite his lack of formal training, Lourdes is a popular partner at gatherings. “Um, of course.”

The girl ducks her head, looks up at Jake from under soft eyelashes, and David feels something twist low in his belly. Disgust, maybe. 

Lourdes disappears into the crowd, letting the girl drag him away, and David steps off the dance floor. He grabs a glass of wine from the tray of a passing person, and tries not to swallow its contents in three gulps like he wants to. Instead, he sips it lightly and leans against a pillar, off to the side. He spots the Kurmazovs waltzing around the dance floor, sees Volkov and Emily speaking to another couple off to the side, but his eyes are constantly being drawn to Lourdes and the pretty girl he’s with. They look good together, he thinks a little bitterly, and then tries to crush the feeling.

Getting involved with Lourdes is a bad idea. David doesn’t expect to stick around England long enough for him to think establishing relationships with people will lead to anything other than tearful goodbyes. And Lourdes’ social status isn’t lost on him either. David is certain that if he told his mother that he was courting with someone of a lower social standing than them she’d cut him off immediately. 

As he watches Lourdes twirl his little lady around the floor, laughing and smiling politely, David drinks the rest of his wine and thinks that maybe, he’ll just save his mother the trouble and end things with Lourdes before they even start. 

 

 

Kurmazov seems to be in good spirits the next day. “I saw you dancing with Jake Lourdes,” he says when David comes down for breakfast. “He is a nice boy.”

“Is he?” David asks. He’s not quite sure he believes Kurmazov. 

“I have heard rumours,” Kurmazov admits, “but they are small things. Nothing scandalous. You could do worse than a boy like him.”

David clenches his teeth. He hates this assumption, that perhaps he’ll find himself a nice English boy and stay in this godforsaken country forever. It won’t be like that. The Revolution will end and his mother will send for him and he’ll find someone in France to settle down with. 

“There’s nothing going on between me and Lourdes,” David says. He stands, cleans his dishes off, and goes to take a walk.

 

On the day that marks his one month stay in England, David’s mother sends a letter.

_Things are still poor here,_ she writes in beautifully scripted French. _Please stay in England a little while longer._

It makes something angry and bitter swell in David’s chest, a feeling that threatens to overcome him and swallow him whole. He doesn’t want to stay in England any longer. He doesn’t want to stay with the Kurmazovs anymore. He wants to go home. He wants his mother to tell him to come home.

David stays in his room that day. He tries - and fails - to compose a letter in return, tries to say anything that doesn’t sound overly petulant, doesn’t sound like a scared little boy asking after his mother. 

Maria Kurmazov comes up when the sun goes down, when David’s still sitting at his desk struggling to get past the first line. “Are you hungry, David?” she asks, putting a hand on his shoulder. He still startles, still gets dragged out of his stupor of staring at the mostly blank page in front of him that only reads, _Cher maman_.

He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, since Kurmazov dropped the letter off on his desk. David’s been too anxious for that, but the mention of food now makes him realize just how hungry he is. As if in agreement, his stomach rumbles. David blushes.

“Come eat, love,” Maria says, moving her hand to sweep it through his hair affectionately. She’s done it often enough over the last month that he feels used to it now, but when she had first started David had always flinched at the contact, unused to it. His own mother had never been affectionate like that.

David follows Maria down to the kitchen, sits stiffly in his seat while Kurmazov talks with his oldest daughter about going riding in the next couple of days. The youngest, Tatiana, smiles shyly at David, and David tries to offer her a small smile in return. He’s not sure he succeeds. 

The Kurmazovs send the girls to their rooms after dinner and bid David join them in the sitting room. It feels like an interrogation, almost, and David cannot help but feel nervous when he sits down in an armchair, cup of tea clutched tightly in his fingers.

“You have seemed very … reserved, today,” Kurmazov says, and David flinches at the tone. Kurmazov frowns.

“If there’s anything that is bothering you, David, we are here to help you,” Maria adds. She looks soft in the light of the lamps, her expression hopeful and kind. It reminds David, briefly, of Lourdes. “We want you to be happy here.”

David does not think he could ever be happy in this city, in this country. What is there to love about a place that rains more than it doesn’t, where the language is harsh and unpleasant to the ear? Where people will not love him back because of where he was born.

“I have been trying to compose a reply to my mother’s letter,” David admits, refusing to meet the Kurmazovs’ eyes. “It has - proven rather difficult.”

“Do you need some help?” Maria asks, and that makes David’s teeth clench. He doesn’t need his hand held in order to fulfill such a simple task.

“No, it’s fine,” he says stiffly. His throat feels tight, with anger and sadness, and he desperately wants to escape, to return to his room and hide away from the Kurmazovs’ kindness. He doesn’t want their pity.

“David - “ Maria starts, but Kurmazov puts a placating hand on her arm, for which David is grateful for. He puts his tea down on the table, and bolts back up to his room.

 

 

The letter sits unfinished for three more days. On the fourth, there is a knock at his bedroom door.

When David turns, he is surprised to see Volkov standing there, Kurmazov hovering just behind. “You have a visitor,” Kurmazov says, as if it’s not obvious, and then disappears down the hall, leaving Volkov to stand awkwardly in the doorway. 

“Hello,” Volkov says. 

David stares. “Hello,” he says finally, for lack of anything better to add.

“Oleg says that you need some company,” Volkov says. His English is just as bad as David remembers.

“I don’t recall requesting any,” David says without thinking, and doesn’t fail to notice the disappointed look on Volkov’s face. His smile springs back in a matter of moments, however, like what David had said had rolled straight off his back.

“No matter,” he says, waving a hand nonchalantly. “You will have company anyway. Come. Let’s go out.”

David glances out the window. It is a surprisingly dry day for once, and he must admit that being holed up inside all week has been less than desirable. The blank page of his letter stares up at him still.

“Fine,” David says. He pushes the letter into a drawer and reluctantly grabs his coat.

 

 

Volkov is surprisingly good company, if only because he spends the majority of the afternoon talking at David and not really minding when David doesn’t have a whole lot to respond with. He talks a little about Russia, about how he knew the Kurmazovs, and then recounts a number of tales about his adventures in England. He is surprisingly funny, and David finds himself laughing more than he has in weeks. 

“I did not think you knew how to smile,” Volkov says after much of the afternoon has passed. “Does it hurt?”

David frowns. “No,” he says, turns away when Volkov grins wolfishly at him. “I just don’t think there’s much to smile about, perhaps.”

David expects Volkov to laugh at him, to tell him that everything will be okay. Therefore, he’s surprised when Volkov lays a hand on his arm, turns David slightly so that they are eye-to-eye again. 

“Coming to new country is scary,” Volkov says. His voice has lost its joking tone, and David bites the inside of his cheek, nods his head uncertainly. “England is hard to adjust to, harder when you miss home.”

“I - “ David starts, but Volkov shushes him again.

“One more thing, Davidson,” Volkov says, and David cringes at the name. He’s always hated nicknames, has always shied away from them when most of them have mocked him: how his last name is so English, how pretty he is, how stuffy and uptight he is. Nicknames have never meant anything but mean, cruel people for David, but Volkov seems different.

“What?”

“England has good people in it,” Volkov says slowly. “People who know how much you miss home. They will take care of you, and you never know. Maybe you will learn to love this country.”

David doesn’t think he could ever like anything about England, but he is fond of the Kurmazovs, and Volkov seems like decent company. 

And Lourdes, but David tries not to think about him too much.

“Thank you,” David says after a moment. “Today was … good.”

Volkov smiles, pats David lightly on the arm. “I am glad,” he says, puffing his chest ridiculously. “It is never a dull day with me. We shall call this, your Summer of Kiro.”

David frowns. “Kiro?” he asks. 

“It is a nickname,” Volkov replies. “Like Davidson is for you.”

“I did not say you could call me … Davidson,” David says, the name sounding foreign on his tongue. Volkov snickers.

“Well, I give you permission to call me Kiro,” he says. “And now we are friends!”

David mulls it over as Kiro takes him home. He’s never made a friend as quickly as Kiro before, has never been asked to call anyone by their nickname. The ease and familiarity feels foreign to David, and he wonders if he should let himself accept it or hold it out at arm’s reach. The more attached he gets to the people here, the harder it will be to leave.

And that’s the goal, to leave.

They reach the Kurmazov’s door and Kiro claps him on the shoulder. “This was a good day,” he declares. His grin is wild and unabashed. David likes it.

“It was,” he says.

 

 

Kiro makes a habit of coming around more often. He shows up whenever he’s not working and drags David out of the house. It’s nice to be able to fill his days with something, but David can’t help but think of the unfinished letter sitting in his drawer each time Kiro takes him on an adventure somewhere new.

“I met Emily here at this tea house,” Kiro says as they sit down at a table by the window. A young woman comes by and pours them some tea. “I was out with the Kurmazovs and she was sitting across the room.” Kiro points vaguely in an opposite direction, and David smiles. He likes Kiro’s stories, and he had been curious as to how he had met Emily.

“Did you talk to her?” David asks curiously.

“Briefly,” Kiro replies. “Maria saw me staring so she called Emily over. Very embarrassing. She was very kind to me though. We met again at a ball the Kurmazovs hosted.”

David tries to imagine a ball held at the Kurmazov residence. It’s spacious, bigger than what he had judged when he had first arrived in England, but it’s already so noisy with all three Kurmazov daughters running around. He can’t imagine having twenty other people there for a ball.

“Oleg told me later they threw the ball so that I might see Emily again. And indeed, she was there. We danced several times together that night, and I began our courtship the next day.”

“You were eager,” David says. “Forward.”

“Very,” Kiro replies. “But how could I let such a wonderful woman pass me by?”

David pauses, his cup of tea raised halfway to his lips. “Were you not worried?” he asks. “Marrying an English woman would no doubt hinder your ability to return to Russia.”

Kiro shrugs. “I miss Russia sometimes,” he admits softly. “But there is nothing left for me there. Emily makes me happy, and England is not so bad with happiness by your side.”

David feels his chest tighten. He doesn’t want to have this conversation now, not with his mother’s letter looming over him, with news from France trickling into the city. Things don’t appear to be getting much better.

He turns his head, for lack of something better to do, eyes being drawn to movement in the corner. A young man and woman, by the looks of it, hiding behind a fan. David purses his lips, thinks about pointing out their public indecency to Kiro, when the man lifts his gaze from behind the fan. He locks eyes with David, and despite half his face being hidden by the fan, David feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. 

On the other side of the room, Jake Lourdes ducks behind the fan again.

Kiro nudges David’s foot under the table. “You see someone you like at this tea house too?” he asks teasingly. “Should advertise as a match-maker.”

David thinks back to the party at Kiro’s, how it had felt to dance with Lourdes, to banter with him. How hard it had been to forget about him afterwards. It feels strange and special to see him here, now, in the same place that Kiro had met Emily. David doesn’t believe in such silly things as fate, but the coincidence does not escape him.

“It is nothing,” he says dismissively, finishing his cup of tea. “Come. I want to go back to that bookstore near your house.”

Kiro raises an eyebrow at him, but he obliges, though David does notice him take a glance at the corner of the room where Lourdes is sitting before they leave.

 

 

The invitation comes a week later. 

“You have a letter,” Kurmazov says, appearing in the doorway of David’s room again. 

David’s throat tightens. He still hasn’t replied to his mother’s last letter. If this is another, he fears what it might say. Reprimanding maybe, for not writing back. Or bad news about the country, or their estate. It could be any number of things and David accepts the letter with shaking hands. He doesn’t miss the way that Kurmazov’s eyebrows knit closely together.

The script on the front of the letter is not familiar, less loopy than his mother’s and more precise. David is unsure of who else would be sending him mail; the only person he can think of his Kiro, and he would much sooner call than have something delivered. Gingerly, David opens the envelope and pulls out the letter within.

“The Lourdes family would like to cordially invite David Chapman to a summer’s ball,” David reads out loud, then glances up at Kurmazov, but Kurmazov waves his own invitation in David’s face.

“We were invited too, do not worry,” Kurmazov says. “It is nice to receive your own invitation though, no?” 

David swallows, dry. He’s only met one of the Lourdes, and he undoubtedly knows who this invitation is from, knows exactly why he has his own and isn’t just an afterthought tagged onto the bottom of the Kurmazovs’. It makes something flutter in his belly.

“Yes,” he says, tucking the invitation away again. “It is nice.”

 

 

The Lourdes, as suspected, live in a considerably less fashionable area of London than the Kurmazovs or the Volkovs. David watches the houses get shabbier the further they get from the city centre, until they’re pulling up to a rather run-down looking home with a rusted wrought-iron fence. The garden looks a little overgrown, and when Kurmazov knocks on the front door, David can’t but notice the peeling paint that flutters to the ground afterwards.

The door opens and a man opens the door. He is unmistakably Lourdes’ father, the same sunny disposition, same mop of dark blonde hair, and same mischievous glint to his eye. They’re the same colour as Jake’s, David notices, if only because he could not pinpoint the exact colour of Jake’s eyes while they danced, and he still can’t when looking at Mr. Lourdes.

“Ah, Kurmazovs, welcome!” Mr. Lourdes says, pulling the Kurmazovs into the house and leaving David to stand awkwardly on the doorstep. “And you must be Mr. Chapman.”

“Good evening,” David says politely, and allows himself to be pulled into the front hall as well.

The house is big, David can tell. For as worn as it is on the outside, it is well-lived in on the inside. The lights glow warmly and the mismatch of furniture designs tells David that the Lourdes have been collecting odds and ends from wherever they could. David’s own house in France has sets of furniture, matching pieces that don’t look out of place together. Somehow, David likes this a little more.

Mr. Lourdes leads them further into the house until they appear in the doorway to their back garden. There’s still enough sunlight to see clearly, but David can spot numerous lanterns set up, ready to be lit when night approaches. 

“Presenting Mr. and Mrs. Oleg Kurmazov, and Mr. David Chapman,” Mr. Lourdes says, a hint of faux grandeur in his voice. The people already in attendance laugh, but clap politely. Kurmazov rolls his eyes.

“Enough out of you,” he tells Lourdes, but it is affectionate, friendly. For as gruff as Kurmazov sounds, David has learned that he is rarely grumpy and very amiable. It’s reassuring, and David has found himself many a evening talking quietly with Kurmazov over dance steps or horseback riding, or any number of bizarre things they have found in England. 

The sound of approaching footsteps from behind him makes David turn his head. Jake Lourdes stands in the doorway back into the house, looking flushed and happy. 

“David,” he says. “Hello.”

“Hello,” David says. His voice sounds hoarse, and he feels himself flush as he clears it. It’s silly to be so enamoured by Lourdes, but David can’t help the pull of attraction he feels in his belly. 

“I’m glad you could come,” Lourdes says. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, but he’s still smiling, like he’s happy but nervous at the same time. David thinks he understands the feeling.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he says, and if possible, Lourdes’ smile gets bigger.

“Of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of forgetting you.”

David feels his cheeks flush again, and Lourdes’ eyes widen as he realizes what he’s said. “Oh!” he exclaims. “Forgive me.”

He feels undone by what Lourdes has said, to know that Lourdes thinks about him enough to privately invite him to this party. It feels dangerous to get attached, but David feels like he’s already broken that rule. He has made friends here in England, despite not wanting to. He knows, however, that what Lourdes seeks is not friendship, and that frightens David more because - 

Because he wants more than friendship too.

David has always been attracted to men, has always found broad shoulders, and tall, strong bodies more appealing than the dainty beauty of women. It’s not uncommon, and it has never bothered David much, but it is everything else that Jake Lourdes is that makes him pause. Unapologetically English; forward and brash; charming and handsome. He’s everything that David knows his mother would never approve of.

“No matter,” he mutters, realizing that Lourdes is still looking at him. He nods politely at Lourdes, who looks stricken by the sudden dismissal, and descends the steps into the garden, hoping to lose himself in the crowd.

He finds the Kurmazovs, standing a ways off the dancefloor. They look happy and flushed, and David feels suddenly tentative, worried about intruding, but Maria spots him and waves him over.

“David,” she says warmly. His face must betray the anxiety he feels because she frowns and reaches out to take his hand. “ _Cher?_ ” she asks, and it’s so motherly, that David’s stomach twists, the way that she uses French endearments for him. “What’s wrong?”

David shakes his head. “Would you like to dance?” he asks, but he can’t make himself look at Maria, can’t make himself meet Kurmazov’s eye for permission.

“Of course,” Maria says cautiously. “You are a beautiful dancer. It will be nice to dance with someone who can keep up.”

Kurmazov grunts, and David flinches, steps back involuntarily. He hears Maria whisper something in Russian, her tone harsh, before she takes his hand and leads him out onto the dancefloor. 

The floor itself is made up of several large wooden boards, spread out over the grass. David figures that it must be to prevent shoes from sinking into the soft ground, but he also notes that most people had arrived wearing sensible shoes for the outdoors. Like they already knew what to expect from a Lourdes garden party.

Maria is a good dancer also, as graceful as David and just as elegant as well. David thinks, perhaps, that she had been a ballerina before the Kurmazovs had moved to England. They carve a path across the dancefloor, other couples moving out of their way, and David lets himself get lost in the music and the steps. 

“You are sad,” Maria says softly, her hand squeezing David’s lightly. “This is a party. What bothers you?”

David’s eyes travel over the crowd. He spots Lourdes speaking with two young women. One of them, he recognizes, as the young lady that had been with Lourdes at the tea house.

“I am afraid, perhaps, that I will grow fond of this country after all,” David says. He aims for a bored tone but he thinks it comes out sounding smaller, sadder than that. 

“And that is not a good thing?” Maria asks.

David clenches his jaw. “I do not wish to enjoy a country that will never love me back,” he says at last. “I know that I can never be French and stay here, so I must leave.”

Maria does not say anything for a moment, lets David lead her around the dancefloor. Finally, she says, “You are so certain that you will return to France?”

The question is so surprising that David stops mid-step, couples swerving around where they’re standing. “I - of course!” he splutters, letting go of Maria. “You think I would abandon my country?”

“David, no,” Maria says, eyes wide and helpless looking. “I only meant - “

“What?” David asks, louder than he had intended. “I cannot stay here, Maria. I know what the English say about - about people like me.” A few people turn to stare. He sees Kurmazov making his way over to them.

“I only thought that, perhaps, you would want to stay here with friends. That we would make it worth it,” Maria says softly, but she looks upset now, like David’s desire to return home hurts her. Around them, more and more people are stopping to look, and David can’t stand it, can’t stand being a spectacle to all these people. He pushes past Maria, brushes off the hand Kurmazov tries to lay on his shoulder, and escapes back up into the house and then out the front door.

 

 

David makes it three houses down before he hears the sound of footsteps behind him. He tenses, thinking it might be Kurmazov, or even Kiro, whom he had spotted once while dancing with Maria, but when he turns it’s to find Lourdes running up to him.

“David,” he says. “Wait.”

David does the opposite. 

Still, Lourdes catches up to him easily, falls into step with David but doesn’t say anything. David can see him shooting glances at David occasionally, tiny movements of his head that make David’s palms itch in irritation. Who did Lourdes think he was, coming after David like this?

“What do you want?” David asks tiredly. There’s a small park at the end of the street, and David finds himself drawn to it.

“You left,” Lourdes says, as if that’s enough. “I wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

David laughs, an ugly, derisive sound that he hates as soon as he hears it. “I have made a fool of myself,” he says simply. 

“Nonsense,” Lourdes replies. He finds them a small stone bench in the park and sits down, waiting for David to do the same. “Pay them no mind.”

David wants to argue, wants to protest, sure that everyone at that garden party must know what he has been careful about keeping to himself: that he is French, that he undoubtedly fits every preconception they have of the French. That he doesn’t belong here.

“You are optimistic,” David comments finally. “To think that they will not talk.”

Lourdes shrugs. “They are our friends. And - and so are you. People there will not tell rumours about where you are from.”

David tenses, his shoulders hunching. “You have told them?”

“Oh,” Lourdes says, clearly realizing what he has said. “David - “

“That was not your secret to share,” David hisses. He’s dismayed to find that his eyes sting slightly, like he’s about to cry. Any of those people could tell their friends, and then - and then what? The Kurmazovs would likely be ostracized for housing a Frenchman. Kiro would no longer come to visit. Lourdes would - Lourdes would likely not want anything to do with him.

“David,” Lourdes says, and he sounds just as stricken as David feels. “I am sorry. I realize now that I have made a foolish mistake but - I thought it would help. If they understood.”

“You are wrong,” David spits out. 

“They will not tell anyone,” Lourdes says quietly, his voice soft enough that David looks up at him.

“How can you be so certain?” he asks.

David watches a blush creep onto Lourdes’ face, notices the way his hands twist nervously in his lap. His clothes are much the same as they had been at the ball at Kiro’s, befitting of someone of Lourdes’ status and yet. They were not high fashion, but David thought they suited Lourdes anyway. He seemed friendlier because of them, more approachable.

“I do not think that people there would speak so ill of someone that I obviously so covet,” Lourdes says after a long moment. He won’t meet David’s eye.

David had suspected, perhaps, that the attraction was mutual. His own interest in Lourdes had been something he had held close to his chest, afraid of the implications of acting upon it. To act would mean telling Lourdes the truth of his nationality, but it seems that now it doesn’t matter anyway.

“You - wish to court me?” he says, for lack of anything better to say. If possible, Lourdes blushes even more. 

“I spoke with Oleg about it,” he admits, and that makes David flush, the idea of Lourdes speaking to Kurmazov about a courtship. “He told me it was not a good idea, that I would be - disappointed, perhaps, when you left England.”

David’s mouth feels dry. It’s everything that he’s told himself since coming to England, but it feels different hearing it from Lourdes. While everyone else has tried to convince David that he will stay, Lourdes is the only one that sounds like he might actually believe David will leave. It’s both refreshing and disheartening at the same time.

“And yet, here you are,” David says quietly, and Lourdes looks at him, a small, sad smile replacing his regular ever-present grin. “Why?”

Lourdes sighs, leans back a little and stares up at the sky above them. It is almost dark now. “You said I was optimistic,” he says. “Perhaps I am too hopeful for my own good.”

David could say any number of things here, could tell Lourdes that Kurmazov is right, that getting involved would not be a smart idea. He’s still upset that Lourdes had told everyone at the garden party, but he hopes that what Lourdes said about the other guests at the party is true. David likes Lourdes’ smile, and he cannot forget the feeling of dancing with him at Kiro’s party. He’s afraid, still, of being found out, but Lourdes intrigues him like no one else in England has managed to.

“I am glad,” he says quietly, and Lourdes smiles.

 

 

They walk back to the house quietly. It gives David time to think, to get lost in the idea of being courted by Jake Lourdes, which is perhaps why he is so surprised to find the Kurmazovs and the Lourdes standings on the front porch waiting for them.

“Oh, David,” Maria says, and she sounds distressed enough that David feels automatically guilty. Even if he hadn’t, Kurmazov’s glare would be enough to cow David. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, letting Maria engulf him in a hug. She smooths down his hair and presses a kiss to his cheek. David feels himself blush.

“Oh, _cher_ , no. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Maria babbles and fusses over David, straightening out imaginary wrinkles in his suit, and brushing invisible dirt from his shoulders. Kurmazov is still glaring, and David has no doubt that they will talk when they return home.

Mrs. Lourdes is speaking quietly to her son when David chances a glance past Kurmazov. Lourdes looks sheepish, and the back of his neck looks a little red, but he nods politely until his mother leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek and sends him back into the house. He glances over his shoulder, and offers David a quick smile before the door is closing and David loses sight of him.

“We’re sorry that your evening has been … less than satisfactory,” Mrs. Lourdes says, and Maria shakes her head.

“Oh Claire, don’t worry,” Maria says earnestly. “Your garden parties are always delightful. We’ll have to return the hospitality and have you over soon.”

Kurmazov looks like he wants to add something, but Maria places a gentle hand on his arm. Whatever he wants to say is replaced by, “Let’s go home. I’m sure we have much to discuss. Thank you again for a wonderful evening.”

Mr. Lourdes quirks an eyebrow, like he’s amused by Kurmazov’s gruffness, but they shake hands before Kurmazov is ushering them over to where their stagecoach has pulled up in front of the walkway. David follows quietly.

“You caused quite a commotion,” Kurmazov mutters once they’re on their way. 

David ducks his head. “Sorry,” he murmurs. He clenches his hands into fists, bites the inside of his cheek to quell the ridiculous urge to cry. 

“It does not matter to me,” Kurmazov says. “But it might matter to you.”

David purses his lips and stares out the window of the stage coach. It’s too dark to see anything, but he can’t bring himself to look at the pitying expressions no doubt painted on the Kurmazov’s face. 

“David, let us help you,” Maria says suddenly. She reaches out, puts her hand on David’s knee and startles him. “We want you to be happy while you’re here.”

“And how will I go about achieving that?” David asks quietly. 

“You are friends with Kirill,” Kurmazov replies. “He is fond of you. And so is Jake Lourdes.”

“I heard you would not allow him to court me,” David says, turning to face Kurmazov. “That he would be left heartbroken in the end.”

To his credit, Kurmazov looks just as stone-faced as he always does. “You seemed eager to return to France,” he says with a shrug. “Jake is known to love freely, to give his heart away easily. Regardless of whether or not you stayed here, I knew that you would not be happy, and I did not think he deserved to be burdened with that.”

It stings. Of course it does. It is the truth, and David suddenly wishes that it wasn’t. “I want to go home to France,” David says after a moment. His voice sounds small. “But - I am, perhaps, realizing that it may not be in my best interest to return.”

Maria squeezes his knee.

Kurmazov huffs. “I am glad that you are thinking practically,” he says, and David flinches. “But I will still not allow Lourdes to court you.”

“Why not?” David asks, too quickly. He feels himself blush.

“You’re not ready yet,” Kurmazov replies. “He is like an overeager puppy. You will not be careful with him.”

“Fine,” David says, petulant. “I am destined to be lonely in this country forever.”

Kurmazov laughs, the sound shocking in the small space of the stage coach. “I said not now,” he says. “I did not say not forever.”

For the first time all night, David lets himself smile.

 

 

Kiro comes over the next day.

“You are talk of the town, Davidson,” he exclaims, and when David shoots him a worried look he says, “Or at least. Of our friends. People are invested now.”

“In what?” David asks. He’s sitting at his desk, attempting once again to compose a letter to his mother. 

“You and Jake Lourdes!” Kiro replies, and David feels himself blush. Still, it is a relief to hear that he’s being talked about for his imaginary relationship with Lourdes and not because - 

“They are not disgusted that I am …” David trails off, the word _French_ hanging between them.

“No,” Kiro says rather vehemently. “Do not worry about that. Our friends are good people, Davidson. If you must know, though, they are wondering when you and Jake will - “

“Never, if Kurmazov has anything to say about it,” David says, cutting Kiro off, feeling relieved. He glances up from his letter to catch Kiro frowning. “What?”

“Why do you call him Kurmazov?” Kiro asks, sitting down on the edge of David’s bed. He tilts his head to the side, like a dog might. On anyone else, it would make them look naive, perhaps even unintelligent, but on Kiro it just makes him look politely curious.

“Why not? That is his name,” David says, but he feels his cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“You call me Kiro,” Kiro says. “We have known each other for considerably less time than you have known Olezkha.”

“He doesn’t like it when you call him that,” David says, automatic. Kiro raises an eyebrow at him.

“Are you afraid to call him Oleg?” Kiro asks. “He will not bite.”

David opens his mouth and abruptly shuts it again. He is afraid of Kurmazov, but not in the way that Kiro is teasing him for now. Kurmazov is kind, a good father to his daughters, and he has been good to David too. It’s a stark contrast to his own family, how David is entirely unsure as to where his own father is now. 

“He is,” David starts, “a reminder of things that - I do not have. Of things that I do not wish to lose again.”

The admission feels like a weight off his shoulders, but David can’t make himself look Kiro in the eye. It feels embarrassing.

“Davidson,” Kiro says softly. “You do not have to lose him, but you cannot keep him either if you do not let him in.”

David closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. He had admitted, the night before, that England may be his home for the foreseeable future, but giving in to the realization was harder than the simpler act of admitting it. 

“Will you help me with something?” David asks, finally, quiet. He doesn’t open his eyes; he doesn’t want to see disappointment on Kiro’s face.

“Of course,” Kiro says. “What is it?”

David inhales. Exhales. “I am trying to compose a letter to my mother,” he says after a moment. “I have been trying for a number of weeks now, but I have been unsure of what to say. I think - I think now, perhaps, I know, but I am having a hard time trying to write it down.”

He opens his eyes, takes in Kiro’s wide grin. “Of course,” he says. “I am good at charming mothers.”

David’s jaw drops. “You are not trying to - to charm her!” he says, and Kiro laughs. 

“No?” he asks. “Then what am I trying to do.”

David thinks of his time spent in England, of his fear that people would not accept him for being French. He knows that some people still won’t, but the people he’s met, the friends of the Kurmazovs and Kiro and Lourdes are all good people. They have accepted him, despite where he has come from. They want him to be part of the fold, if their supposed investment in his courtship with Lourdes is anything to go by. 

For so long, David was afraid of the people in this country, but now he knows better. He longs for the streets of Paris, for the food and the drink and the dance, but he does not mind England so much now. He bites the inside of his cheek before answering Kiro. 

“I want you to try and convince her to come here too.”

 

 

The next morning, Kurmazov knocks on David’s doorframe. 

“I am going riding,” he says. “Kirill mentioned that you would be interested in joining me.”

David remembers saying no such thing to Kiro the night before, but he supposes he should have expected this. It seems like Kiro to try and set up a confrontation like this. It makes David tempted to say no, to say that he has things to do, but it would be a lie and - and David does not wish this to be their relationship for however long he remains in England. Or beyond that, even.

“Alright,” David says. Kurmazov - _Oleg,_ David reminds himself - looks surprised but pleased, and he nods at David before stalking off down the hallway to get ready. David takes the opportunity to dress in riding clothes and try to get his hair to lie flat in the back. The humidity in England has done strange things to it ever since he moved, and he has a perpetual cowlick that he’s rather self-conscious about. No one has commented on it yet, but David can’t tell if that’s just because people in England are more polite, or less fashionably inclined.

Oleg is waiting for him by the front door when David descends. His youngest daughter, Tatiana, is clinging to his leg.

“Papa,” she begs. “Please. I want to come too!”

Oleg gently nudges her away. “Another day, perhaps,” he says. “Play with your sisters. Visit Oscar, the dog next door. Today it will just be me and David.”

Tatiana pouts, and David cannot help but smile. Oleg catches him and scowls. “Another time, Tatiana,” he says.

And then Tatiana turns on David.

“David,” she says, batting her eyelashes at him. “Please may I come with you and Papa? I will be good. I _promise._ ”

Oleg rolls his eyes.

“Perhaps tomorrow we can go to the park,” David suggests before he can fully process what he’s saying. Oleg looks a little shocked, so David adds, “If your papa says it’s okay.”

Tatiana whirls around again. “Papa, _please_.”

Oleg sighs, long-suffering but affectionate. David wonders when he started to pick up on the nuances of his tones. “You are lucky that David wants to spend an afternoon at the park with you,” he says. “He does not know what trouble you will get into.”

David’s eyes widen and Oleg - Oleg winks at him. Dizzily, David follows him out of the house - Tatiana wishing them safe riding as they go - and wonders vaguely how much he’s missed out by sulking in his room this whole time.

 

 

David goes to the park with Tatiana and her sisters the next day. And the day after that. He goes every day that week until it rains one day and they are told to stay in. 

“Perhaps you can entertain David with some music,” Maria says. She’s cutting up some vegetables for dinner. David had offered to help, but she had waved him off, and while David does not mind the girls, he feels worn out by their excitable chatter. He longs for the company of another man.

“David,” Oleg says, appearing in the doorway. “Jake Lourdes is here to see you.”

The girls _ooh,_ and giggle quietly. Even Maria looks amused.

“Oh,” David says faintly. He hasn’t seen Lourdes since the garden party. He stands from his chair, tries to push down the nerves that are bubbling in his throat, and follows Oleg through to the sitting room where Lourdes is waiting, fidgeting slightly. 

“David, hello,” he says politely. He looks - good, David decides. He’s wearing finer clothes than David would expect from such a casual visit, and he looks nervous. Still, he offers David a bright smile, and then sits in the armchair Oleg motions him towards. David sits opposite him, on the couch with Oleg.

“You have been well?” Oleg asks Lourdes, when it’s clear that neither David nor Lourdes will break the silence.

“Well enough,” Lourdes replies, then proceeds to detail an account of his eldest sister’s troubles in wrangling her child, and his mother’s protests of how poorly their vegetable garden has been producing this year. David’s surprised to learn that Mrs. Lourdes does all the gardening herself. In France, David had a cook that tended a vegetable garden. The idea of his mother trying to grow plants is laughable.

“You are a good speaker,” Oleg says when Lourdes is done. “Have you thought of a career in politics?”

Lourdes frowns, hard enough that David almost laughs. “My sisters say I am too soft for such,” Lourdes responds. “My father thinks perhaps a businessman.” 

“A salesperson,” Oleg says delightedly, and then laughs when Lourdes rolls his eyes. David personally thinks salesmen are manipulative and mean-spirited, not like Lourdes at all. 

“You could be a teacher,” David says, and then, realizing the implications of recommending a woman’s job, adds, “A dancing instructor, perhaps.”

Lourdes is the one to laugh this time, and David blushes. He feels embarrassed for bringing up such a stupid comment.

“You are a much better dancer than me,” Lourdes says kindly. “I am capable, at best. But thank you for thinking so highly of my abilities.”

David ducks his head. He thinks he can hear Oleg snickering beside him.

“You are here for a reason,” Oleg prompts once he’s got his giggling under control. David snaps his head up to look at Lourdes.

Whatever ease that had settled over him before, seems to vanish. He looks nervous again. “Ah, yes,” he says. “I, uh. I had come in the hopes that you may allow me to take Mr. Chapman out for tea.”

The formality is strange, coming from Lourdes who is regularly so casual in his speak. It had been grating, at first, but David has since gotten used to it. He has always called David by his given name, and to hear Lourdes address him so formerly is unsettling.

The question itself is directed at Oleg, but Lourdes meets his eye, biting his lower lip in a show of uncharacteristic uncertainty. David remembers Lourdes telling him that he was an optimist, and yet, he seems unsure now. Perhaps he is afraid that Oleg will turn him down again.

If it were up to David, he would say yes.

Oleg hums, seemingly mulling over the question. Finally, he says, “When?”

David’s heart feels like it might beat out of his chest.

Lourdes looks similarly startled. “Oh, uh,” he stutters. “Tomorrow? At noon?”

“At the tea shop on Highbury street,” Oleg says. Not a question, but a statement.

“If that is agreeable for you.”

“Very,” Oleg replies. He glances at David, perhaps for the first time since the conversation shifted, and David feels himself nod his consent. Just over a week ago, Oleg had told David he was not ready to be courted by Jake Lourdes, and now he was setting up their first outing. David wonders what changed.

“I - “ Lourdes starts, then cuts himself off, like he is unsure of the best words to use. “I should probably be getting home,” he says at last. “Thank you for your hospitality. And your permission.”

Oleg smiles, sharp and predatory. Protective. David feels his face grow warm. 

“I trust you will have a good time tomorrow,” he says, standing and shaking Lourdes’ hand when Lourdes stands too. 

“Are you not coming?” David asks, shaking hands with Lourdes clumsily. His hand feels clammy, or perhaps that is Lourdes. Perhaps it is both of them.

“Sadly, I must take the girls to their dance classes,” Oleg says. “Do not worry. I will arrange for you another suitable chaperone.”

David has lived with the Kurmazovs long enough now to be suspicious about how happy Oleg seems to be about handing over this meeting to someone else. He looks at Oleg, but when he can’t catch his eye, he turns his attention back to Lourdes, who looks impossibly happy. David bites the inside of his cheek; it feels like a lot, suddenly, to be responsible for someone else’s heart.

“I look forward to it,” Lourdes says. He offers David a blinding smile and exits the sitting room. David hears him bid Maria and the girls farewell before the sound of the front door alerts him that Lourdes has left.

“Who are you going to ask to chaperone?” David asks Oleg. Oleg merely grins.

“You will see,” he says, and winks again. David thinks he has every right to feel rather unsettled.

 

 

Kiro shows up at eleven o’clock the next morning.

“I am going out,” David informs him as he rifles through his wardrobe. He wants to look presentable, but not overly dressed up. The difference between his own wealth and Lourdes’ is enough to make David think twice about what he wants to wear; he doesn’t want to make Lourdes look like an underdressed fool.

“I know,” Kiro says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and nodding politely when David holds a shirt up to his front. “I am to be your chaperone.”

David almost drops the shirt.

“You?” he asks, astonished. “Oleg asked you - ?”

Kiro laughs. “Who else did you expect?” he asks. “You do not know so many people, Davidson.”

David feels himself flush. It’s true that he has not made too many friends in England beyond Kiro and Emily, but it doesn’t make the statement sting any less.

Kiro must pick up on David’s mood because he says, “Come on. Put on your fancy shirt. We don’t want to keep Jacob waiting.”

David thinks about Lourdes’ bright smile, the soft fall of his hair and the way he had nervously twisted his hands together when he had come over the day before. He is endearing, David admits to himself, and he finds himself changing quickly, eager to be on his way.

 

 

Lourdes is already seated at a table when they arrive. He raises an eyebrow at Kiro, but shakes his hand warmly all the same. Then he pulls out David’s chair for him, which is both embarrassing and kind at the same time. David feels a little anxious.

“Play nice,” Kiro says and seats himself at the next table over. He’s within earshot if they talk loudly enough, but just far enough away to give an air of privacy. 

Lourdes is blushing faintly when David turns his attention back to him. He fiddles slightly with his cloth napkin and then says, “I am glad you came today.”

David laughs. “You thought that I would not?”

Lourdes shrugs and ducks his head a little. “You seemed very eager to return to France,” he says quietly, and David glances around to see if anyone has heard. “And just because you implied that you would not be opposed to the idea of me courting you does not mean - “

“It’s okay,” David says, cutting Lourdes off. He suspects that if he let him, Lourdes would just nervously ramble on. It’s nice to know that he’s not the only person nervous in this situation.

Lourdes smiles faintly at him and then goes back to fidgeting with the teaspoon in front of him. A pot of tea is dropped off their table, and David pours for both of them carefully. Everything feels stilted and awkward and not at all like any other conversation they’ve had before. David feels dismayed. Perhaps they are not compatible after all.

“This is … not good,” Lourdes says at last, sipping from his cup gingerly. He frowns into his tea like it’s offended him.

“It’s just a different setting,” David offers. “Set up, this time.”

Lourdes looks up at him after a moment, a slow grin spreading on his face. “You are right,” he says. “And I have an idea.”

David wants to protest. He’s certain that any plan that Lourdes comes up with will not be proper, that it will be something that is talked about if they are caught, but there’s something about Lourdes’ smile that makes David pause. 

“Okay,” he says, reluctantly, and Lourdes’ grin gets bigger, if possible. 

An attendant walks past them at that moment and Lourdes beckons her closer. The lady is polite looking and makes to reach for their tea pot, but Lourdes shakes his head. “Could you please tell that man that someone is making off with his carriage?” Lourdes asks, nodding towards the window and then gesturing to Kiro. The attendant’s eyes widen and she nods before bustling off to Kiro’s table. 

David can tell the exact moment that Kiro gets the news, because there’s a small yelp and then Kiro is standing at the edge of their table.

“Emergency, Davidson,” Kiro says. “Stay out of trouble while I sort it out.” He walks briskly from the room, and a moment later David sees him run out the front door of the tea house.

“Come on,” Lourdes says, standing abruptly and grabbing David’s hand. It’s very forward, and David blushes, but Lourdes brazenly blazes on and adds, “We don’t have much time before he realizes your carriage is still there.” He tugs on David’s hand, and without much pause, David follows him.

 

 

David follows Lourdes out the back door of the kitchen. “I know the pastry chef,” Lourdes had said with a wave of his hand when David had balked at the idea of going through the kitchen. “It’s fine.”

They find themselves in the alley behind the row of shops, and Lourdes tugs on David’s hand again, pulling him in the opposite direction of storefronts. They pop out at the other end where there are a few people milling about.

“Lourdes,” David hisses, glancing around. There is no sign of Kiro anywhere.

Lourdes gives him a funny look, and when David arches an eyebrow at him sagely, he laughs and says, “You can call me Jake, you know.”

David opens his mouth and then closes it again. He’s slowly fallen into less formal naming practices with everyone else; why should Lourdes be any different? It feels more intimate, David thinks at last. To call Lourdes ‘Jake’ would be an acceptance of the courtship, would mean a commitment.

Lourdes is looking at him with wide eyes. They’re a motley of colours, something that David can’t quite pinpoint, but they’re always expressive. Lourdes wears his heart out on his sleeve, which is dangerous, but David likes that. He likes that Lourdes is optimistic about him.

“Jake,” David says slowly, and Jake beams at him. He laces their fingers together and starts walking off down the street. David has no choice but to keep up, but he has no idea where they’re going.

Jake leads them to a small square. There’s a fountain in the middle, with benches around it, and they sit down on one, their hands still joined. 

“This is better, right?” Jake asks. It reminds David of the time after he stormed out of the Lourdes’ party. “More … natural.”

They’re in public, which David wouldn’t exactly call an improvement, but he has to admit that he feels less nervous. Talking to Jake has never been especially difficult, but the tea house had been suffocating.

“Do you think Oleg will be mad at me?” Jake asks, gazing off into the distance. 

David shakes his head. “Probably not,” he admits. “If he was so worried, he would have made Kiro take his daughters to dance class and then chaperoned us himself.”

Jake laughs. It’s nice sounding. “True,” Jake says. He turns his head so he can look at David, and David feels his breath catch in his throat. “I had all these ideas of how grand this courtship would be,” Jake admits, running his spare hand through his hair. “But nothing ever really seems to go to plan with you.”

“Oh?” David asks faintly.

“I thought I would sweep you off your feet at that first ball at Kiro and Emily’s,” Jake says quietly. “But I was the fool. You swept me off my feet for certain. I’ve been lovesick ever since.”

“You hardly know me,” David says. He wonders if Jake would still be so enamoured with him if he knew how stubborn David’s been about England. If he knew about how furious David had been at his own mother, or about how petulant David’s been with the Kurmazovs. Maybe Oleg was right, maybe he will break Jake’s heart after all.

“But I would like to,” Jake says. “You are the best dance partner I have ever had and - “ He cuts himself off, and David can’t help but notice the faint blush creeping up Jake’s cheeks.

“And?” he prompts. He’s still holding Jake’s hand and he gives it a faint, but hopefully reassuring squeeze.

Jake smiles at him weakly. “And I think you are the most beautiful person I have ever seen,” he concludes.

This time, it is David’s turn to blush. “Oh,” he murmurs, ducking his head slightly. He has heard the things the other students at the dance school have whispered, knows that he is regarded as pretty, but it sounds like a compliment from Jake whereas from them it had sounded like insults. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Jake says.

They sit and talk until Kiro eventually finds them, looking out of breath and a little dusty. By that time, David knows a myriad of things about Jake: his favourite colour, his favourite animal, his favourite book. David’s offered up a few responses in reply, but Jake dominates the conversation and that’s - fine. Jake tells funny stories, and David likes them.

“Have you been sitting here the entire time?” Kiro asks, sounding annoyed.

“Yes,” David replies, because he feels slightly bad. It’s been close to an hour, he figures.

“And have you just been talking?” KIro asks. He sounds less annoyed now and more mischievous, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively. David blushes.

“Yes,” Jake says, squeezing David’s hand. “My mama raised me right.”

“Well,” David says, and when Jake turns to look at him he adds, “That is the grammatical way of saying it, no?”

Jake stares for a moment and then breaks out into a bigger smile than David’s seen from him yet. “Yeah,” Jake says, and then leans over and presses a chaste kiss to David’s cheek. “I think you’re right.”

 

 

**C O D A**

The letter comes on a Thursday.

David’s sitting on the couch in the sitting room with Jake when Oleg walks in with envelope in his hand. “For you,” he says. He doesn’t have to add who it’s from. Only one person ever writes to David.

“Would you like me to leave?” Jake asks. They’ve been courting now for almost a month and David is rather surprised at how much he enjoys Jake’s company. Jake fills the silences in their conversations, and he’s quite good with children. Oleg’s daughters love him, and David suspects that he if does not marry Jake, one them will certainly try to.

“No,” David says quietly. “Stay, please?”

He hasn’t heard from his mother since he sent the letter Kiro wrote, and with the flurry of spending time with Jake and the Kurmazovs, David’s forgotten a little that he was even waiting for it. Now, though, holding the creamy paper in between his hands, he feels nervous.

“It’s okay,” Jake says, squeezing David’s knee lightly. Jake’s knowledge of David’s family is minimal, but he’s clearly figured out that they make David tight-lipped and upset. David inhales slowly then rips through the wax seal on the back, yanking the letter unceremoniously from its envelope and eyeing it speculatively.

He registers the words, _Thank you for the invitation,_ and _I’m glad you are liking England enough._ And then he sees the rest: _I don’t think leaving France will be a good move for our family. Perhaps you will return home after the revolution?_

Shakily, David puts the letter down on the coffee table and stares at it. A month ago, perhaps, he would have jumped at his mother’s invitation to return to France, but - but now he feels reluctant to accept. He’s supposed to take the Kurmazov girls to a dance class this week, and he’s having tea with Kiro the week after. Jake has a whole list of dates he wants to go on, and while some of them seem to be a little odd, David is looking forward to attending a ball with Jake in the following month, if only so they can show off their dance skills.

“David?” Jake asks, and it takes David a moment to realize that Jake probably couldn’t read the letter; his mother had written in French.

“This courtship,” David says slowly, and feels Jake tense beside him. “It - it will last, won’t it?”

“Yes?” Jake asks, but he sounds uncertain, like he’s not sure what David’s trying to say.

David huffs, frustrated. “I am quite fond of you,” he says finally. “And I can’t imagine staying in England and not - “ _have you_.

“Oh,” Jake says, realization dawning on him. “Yes, I - I anticipate this being a lengthy courtship. If you will have me for that long.”

“Of course,” David says, and when he looks at Jake, Jake is smiling. Sometimes he seems so happy that he might explode with it. 

“I am happy that you came to England,” Jake says, closing the distance between them on the couch. They are technically still on supervised dates, but neither Oleg nor Maria are in the room. David tips his head forward until his forehead bumps Jake’s and Jake laughs a little. “I am glad to have met you.”

David thinks back to when he had first come to England, how filthy and disgusting the city had seemed. How filthy and disgusting the people seemed to be. But he had learned that the people, and London itself, had more to them than first glance. David had friends now, and family. And he had Jake too. 

In some ways, it was less than what he had in France. He has no money in England, and no place to call his own, but he feels wanted here. He feels loved.

“I am happy I came too,” David says at last, and closes the last breath of space between him and Jake with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me sometimes on [tumblr](http://lilcrickee.tumblr.com) and most often on [twitter](http://twitter.com/lilcrickee). Ask box and DM's are open :)


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